


let me look on you with my own eyes

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (and abuse), All hurt no comfort, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Angst, Enemies to Brothers Quickrun, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Referenced Child Abandonment, Sith-Typical Anger Issues, Space Opera, The Force, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: He has the lightsaber to Dave's throat and the sparks of it bathe his face in fire, catch the orange of his eyes alight despite how cold they are. He feels the threat of burning, smells his cape catching alight. It burns the inside of his nose more than the last line of spice he took. "Dirk," he says, and his voice breaks. His hand is shaking as he reaches up, mindless fucking instinct because that's his brother, Dave did this to him, and he hates him, but all he wants to do is touch. He still sees that child, small and scared and shrinking into nothingness and sand."Dirk," he says again, when his hand presses against smooth, smooth skin, warm to the touch. He's real. He's real, and Dave's chest cracks and caves inwards. He'd close his eyes, but if this is the last thing he sees-
Relationships: Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider & Dirk Strider
Kudos: 13
Collections: Genuary 2021





	let me look on you with my own eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from an Anakin quote.
> 
> I'm STILL not a Star Wars fan, okay? I just know slightly more lore than might be considered usual.
> 
> Inspired by [this](https://ectoobaby.tumblr.com/post/638255085936345088/star-wars-au-commission-for-quixxotique-i) art by ectobaby. We're in a circle of self-indulgence where I commissioned the art and it was drawn so gorgeously I had 50 feelings and ended up actually writing stuff for this AU.

“He is human—they are a lesser species. Over the decades, the dark side has exacted too great a toll on his body. He is a hollow shell of what he once was.”  
― Drew Karpyshyn, Revan.

* * *

“No,” Dave says, automatic, once the words click in his head. “You’re lying. I mean, kriff, you could’ve tried a mind trick or some Sith hoodoo nonsense to actually make it believable, but sure, just saying ‘I’m your long-lost dead brother’ ain’t exactly the most convincing thing around. Hot tip, Sith boy, you can’t lie to a liar and lemme tell you, I’m _the_ best liar around.”

“It seems you don’t believe me, Dave,” the fucking lying Dark Sider in front of him says in return, and even through the modulator, Dave hears the smugness dripping from his voice. Fucking Sith, they’re all the same. Fucking _Imperials_ , they’re all the same. The Baroness sure knows how to pick her workers, that’s for sure- at least the ones that aren’t stolen or conscripted, war orphans drawn into the same conflict that killed their families without knowing it.

Dave used to be so, so angry about that. He used to want to make it better, make it stop.

Now? He’s pushing forty and his knees hurt and old wounds ache in the cold, he’s been put in carbonite more times than he can remember and each time his joints come back a bit stiffer. He’s tired- old, too, but like hell is he going to admit _that_.

“Of course I don’t believe you, I have eyes and a brain cell and believe me, plenty of people’d say that it ain’t working that great, but even if it wasn’t it could spot a stupid lie like that a mile away,” Dave bites back.

But there’s no answer, not verbally.

Instead, two black-gloved hands reach up to the helmet, with its Drone-shaped eyes, ridiculous triangles on an already-ugly thing, and start to lift it up.

What.

The helmet comes off in a cold pneumatic hiss, like a door closing, and Dave’s breath catches in his throat.

His eyes catch on pale skin, shades lighter than his own, still dotted with telltale freckles. Sharp cheekbones, the blade of his nose devastatingly familiar. Light hair, mussed from the helmet, swept to one side of his face. He remembers carding his fingers through it, how soft it was, how his baby brother would lean into his hand like a cat and smile despite himself, because he’d always been such a serious kid, hadn’t he? Dave’d had to work to earn those smiles but each one was like a kriffing sunrise, or some shit.

Orange eyes meet his own and it’s like being punched in the gut. He knows- oh, Force, he can’t deny it- this is Dirk, except there’s nothing of the child Dave remembers in this man.

“Do you believe me now, brother?” Dirk murmurs, disdain dripping from his voice. It’s a smooth tenor, deeper than he remembers, and so, so cold. It’s human, without the modulator built into the mask.

 _No_ , he wants to say. _Fuck no, she made you look like this, she_ made _you, just like those Clones_. But the Clones don’t work that way, and there’s no way that she’d have found genetic material for Dirk anyway, not when he was so young. Not when he’d died in an explosion.

There hadn’t been a body. Dave remembers that vividly, learning about it from some somber-faced Resistance captain who’d been nearby. An accident, he’d said, from fuel cells that had needed replacing years ago. It’d been bad luck, that was all.

(And Dave had left him there to be victim to it, except now he’s realizing that he left him to much, much worse.)

Dave thinks he’s going to be sick. His eyes burn, and he’s reaching out before he knows it, his fingers digging into the meat of Dirk’s arm under those layers of black. He doesn’t miss how Dirk tenses, how his eyes narrow like a Krayt dragon locked on its prey.

He’s solid, real, and fuck, Dirk is alive, but what has he turned into? The Empress’s puppet? Her iron fist? He’s- he’s done so many fucking awful things that if Dave put a blaster bolt between his eyes here and now it’d be a net good, it’d be for the better. He’s drenched in blood and he’s done nothing good, has he, and if Dave killed him, if he took this chance, it’d be for the better. He’d be a hero. That makes him feel sicker, because all Dave can see is the young boy who he left behind in the sand all those years ago.

Dirk’s hand moves, and Dave thinks he’s going to grab his wrist and twist it away, break it, but- he doesn’t. Instead there’s just the shove of invisible power that slams him against the wall and away from Dirk, and he feels it close around his throat, but he’s fighting uselessly and it’s for nothing so much as getting close to Dirk again and shaking him by the shoulders and asking why, or falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness.

“You do,” Dirk says, low, satisfied. “Tell me, brother. How does it feel to see what you turned me into?”

It feels like-

Dave-

He can’t breathe.

Oh, it’s a Force choke. Of course.

It lets up just enough for him to gulp down a breath, sputtering. Normally he prides himself on his cool head, on being a quick thinker and a fast talker (and sure, occasionally a sweet talker, but since when has that gotten him into any trouble beyond what he’d gone looking for, wanting to forget?), but he can’t manage it anymore. He doesn’t want to know what his face looks like; he sees a distorted version of it in the helmet tucked under one arm. He doesn’t look like himself, in it, not with how it widens his eyes and pulls his jaw down, twists his mouth into a scream.

“I didn’t-,” is all he can manage. It’s feeble, at best. Because he did, and because despite it all, he’s still so fucking relieved to see that Dirk _lived_.

“You did,” Dirk breathes- and no, that’s not Dirk, that’s the Empress’s iron fist made flesh, that’s the Sith, that’s the Forsaken, here. He’d always thought it was a kriffing stupid title for an Imperial, especially one that powerful.

“Dirk,” is all he can say. “I didn’t- mean to. You were supposed to be safe, you were supposed to be alright, what happened?”

“You left,” Dirk answers. “You left, and she found me. But I should congratulate you, I think. Everything she taught me about the Dark Side, none of it would’ve been possible without you. See, it requires a lot of hate, to fuel that kind of power.” His brother’s face twists into a smile that’s more of a grimace. “And you’ve provided a _lot_ to go off of.”

“You knew this whole time,” Dave says dumbly. “You could’ve found me. I could’ve helped you. I could-,”

“You? Help me? You _left_ me for her,” he grits out, and there’s that thread of rage like durasteel running through his voice again. He doesn’t sound like Dirk, his voice is deeper, he’s not a kid anymore. Of course he’s not. “And when have you ever helped anyone? Tell me, Strider, famous smuggler, famous washed-up _has-been_ of the Resistance. When did your sister stop trying to reach you, stop giving you missions because you couldn’t be trusted to not ruin everything? When did you last do something that wasn’t to save your own ass?”

He can’t make his mouth move, and there’s no Force choke, here. Not anymore. But he’s still frozen, pinned down by the seething yellow-orange of those eyes that are still too familiar, after everything. He’s had nightmares of Dirk burning, of Dirk begging him for help, of small, skeleton hands dragging him on into the fire, too.

This is so, so much worse.

“No answer?” he continues. “Shocking, but probably for the best. I don’t have time to deal with any of your lies.”

He’s so close, but he’s not touching Dave anymore. His extended hand lowers, until his fingers wrap around the hilt of his lightsaber, and it activates with an ominous hum. The bloodred glow bathes his face in awful light, and Dave swears that he _is_ burning in that second, he looks hollow, like nothing but a revenant. The buzz of it makes Dave’s hair stand on end, settles into his bones like a death knell.

He still can’t move, even when it’s closer, and closer, and-

He has the lightsaber to Dave's throat and the sparks of it bathe his face in fire, catch the orange of his eyes alight despite how cold they are. He feels the threat of burning, smells his cape catching alight. That makes it worse, seeing this close up, but he can’t look away. He- this is his _brother_.

It burns the inside of his nose more than the last line of spice he took. "Dirk," he says, and his voice breaks. His hand is shaking as he reaches up, mindless fucking instinct because that's his brother, Dave did this to him, and he hates him, but all he wants to do is touch. He still sees that child, small and scared and shrinking into nothingness and sand, and maybe that child is dead and maybe he killed him, but if this is as close as he’s going to get, if this is his _last chance_ -

Dave is going to take it.

"Dirk," he says again, when his hand presses against smooth, smooth skin, warm to the touch. He's real. He's real, and Dave's chest cracks and caves inwards. He'd close his eyes, but if this is the last thing he sees-

It's worth it.

He drinks in every detail- the freckles on his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the thin, inexpressive line of his mouth. This is Dirk, grown, and Dave doesn't know him. Dave knows he doesn't deserve to, not after this. He tips his head back, ever so slightly, and waits for the inevitable. He's never felt so old; he's been running all his life, away from Dirk, away from the Empire, away from his sister and everything she'd told him he could be. He's no hero, it's too late for that now.

The emitters press dangerously close to his jaw; if he swallows he'll burn his throat, but he can feel the heat of Dirk's body against his, all firm muscle under all that black, and this- isn't his kid. This isn't even his brother. That much has been made clear, and his eyes sting and he finally has to squeeze them shut. If it's Dirk-

The world isn't fair, Dave knows that; hell, he's perpetuated it. He's lied and cheated and hurt people before, and for what? All he is, is empty. It'd be a mercy, at this point, part of him thinks. He won't have to figure out where to go next, how to always stay one step ahead of everyone else, there's going to be no more nights on the Sprite, wondering what the hell it was all for before he lets his eyes go brilliant, spice-blue and lets it all fade away with the streaks of bright white in the hyperlanes. It isn't fair, but there's something irredeemably just about Dirk being the one to do it.

Dave lets out his last breath, a slow, shaky exhale.

He's terrified. He's never not been terrified.

The next thing he knows is the warmth receding, the threatening hum of the lightsaber vanishing. What-? When he opens his eyes, Dirk is standing two feet away, jaw clenched and shoulders tense.

"Go," he bites out. He's not even looking at Dave, and the shock of the word hits him like ice cold water in the 'fresher when he's hungover.

He's so far away, all over again, and Dave- Dave can't leave him again, can he? He's not going to fail him- He takes a step towards Dirk, an arm outstretched. Dirk flinches back.

"I said go. You won't get another chance like this." His voice is acid, etching through whatever's left of Dave's walls.

No, Dave wants to say, scream, cry. Not without you. Not again. I left you before, how the fuck could I do it again, do you even know what's going to happen to you if you let me escape? But under those burning eyes, there's nothing but anger, hollow and cold as a black hole. Hungry and sharp.

Dave isn’t going to get this chance to reach him again, he knows. Dirk will kill him before he gets this close again. But the phantom warmth is still on his palm, and his heart is pounding in his chest, and when has he ever been able to save anyone that mattered?

Dirk's fingers are curled into fists and Dave aches for the slam of one into his jaw. Anything, any bruises to prove this was real and he was here. But he doesn't say any of that. He's still a kriffing coward, he's no one's hero, least of all Dirk's, and nothing he does can change it.

_When has he ever been able to save anyone?_

Dave takes one step back, then another, then he turns and runs and pretends like he isn't committing the lines of Dirk's figure in the background to memory, staring right at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did slam the Rey & Ben Solo and Bastila & Revan parallels HARD with this one.
> 
> And if I continue it the Knights of Ren WILL be way cooler than in the movies, that's just the fucking tea. They were such a disappointment it actually hurt me, okay? Like. God, were they Force-sensitive? Were they meant to be sort of like Mandalorians in that they were a scourge against the Jedi? Were they FORMER students of Luke's (and yes, this is my favorite one)-
> 
> Sigh. Realistically they'd just end up being the fucking clowns.


End file.
